


better than the real thing

by strawberrv



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Forgery, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrv/pseuds/strawberrv
Summary: being a criminal is one thing, being partners in crime with kihyun is another.
Relationships: Im Changkyun | I.M/Yoo Kihyun
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	better than the real thing

**Author's Note:**

> just a random littol prompt from taz !   
> ummm i did little to no research .... don't ask me about any of the painting/forgery stuff i literally just assumed fjkdnfjk so if u have actual Knowledge i'm so sorry..  
> this is also not how to take care of a gunshot wound holy moly.. changkyun is just doing his best i suppose !  
> hope u enjoy <3

the deal is at four a.m., and at three a.m. kihyun is still working on the signature.

changkyun taps his thumbs together, sitting on the couch, trying not to look like he’s anxious, radiating anxiety. he opens his mouth, closes it. looks at the curve of kihyun’s spine as he bends further to look through his standing magnifier, microscopic brush in hand. changkyun opens his mouth again.

“do y—”

“if you don’t go in the other room and let me work i’ll throw you out the window,” kihyun interrupts, voice tight as it always is when he’s painting.

changkyun casts a wary glance to the propped-open bay window across the room, letting in the chilled night air. kihyun says it’s good for the paint. changkyun’s ears are cold.

“i’ll get the — yeah,” changkyun mutters, and gets up to shuffle into the main studio. kihyun says this is what he blew the last of his trust fund on during his brief life as a graduate student; a studio in bushwick — _“to store all of my masterpieces,”_ he’d said, line of his mouth a bitter twist of olive stem.

changkyun grabs a mason jar and gets water from the tap, which tastes like gamblin medium blue. it probably should be a concern that changkyun can now identify brand and color of sometimes-toxic archival paint from taste alone, but at least it’s not utrecht this time. he dumps the rest and methodically washes the jar, trying to eat up as much time as possible. when he’s done it’s three twenty-four. he checks for his keys, wallet, etcetera, thinks of the gun in the vault, leaves it there. 

_“do_ not _touch it,” kihyun hisses, slapping changkyun’s hand away from the beretta, hands cold and careful as he pulls it apart to check the — well, ammo? bullet… cartridge. changkyun has played call of duty once. kihyun’s father hunts._

_“do you… think we’ll ever, like. use it?”_

_kihyun sighs, makes sure the safety’s on, places it into the safe, next to their modest pile of cash that kihyun has yet to check the authenticity of._

__“you _can forget it even exists.”_

footsteps sound in the side room, and the softer noises of kihyun’s paints being capped and brushes being soaked. he emerges with the small painting back in its travel frame, purple exhaustion smudged under his eyes. it’s three forty-one.

“well? let’s go,” kihyun says, shouldering past him. changkyun scrambles, triple checking everything and grabbing kihyun’s leather from the coatrack before locking up behind them. he zips the frame into a more discreet case in the elevator, and has to jog to catch up with kihyun’s brisk march into the lobby and outside.

the icy wind bites changkyun’s nose with its sharp teeth, and kihyun, no-sleep-pale, is rouged within a few seconds. changkyun proffers his jacket to him when they stop at a pedestrian crossing, which kihyun twitches at, but takes. he doesn’t put it on until they’re in the parking garage, descending the stairwell with the broken camera that smells like piss. changkyun watches the roll of his shoulders as he shrugs it on, booted feet quick on the steps.

the first time kihyun had seen the motorcycle, he’d said, “you named _that_ isabella?!”

now he wordlessly takes the painting case from changkyun and straps it to his back as he swings one leg over the seat. the dull slide of their helmets over their hair, and isabella grumbles to life, whines her displeasure at the cold weather as changkyun navigates out of the garage, then roars down the highway. kihyun grips the edges of changkyun's jacket like always, no matter how much changkyun insists it's safer if he just wraps his arms around. it might not matter anyway — kihyun's grip is one of death; he holds things so that they can never be ripped from him, unrelenting. changkyun wouldn't be surprised if they crashed and the paramedics found kihyun like that, still holding on.

they arrive with two minutes to spare, the guy is already there, some nerve-wracked auctioneer that needed an “authentic” goya — frayed at the edges type of guy that hadn’t given a name, just a three-thousand down payment and two-day deadline. kihyun hands both his helmet and the case to changkyun once isabella’s settled comfortably close. the warehouse is bare and fluorescent, crumbling in places. 

changkyun really doesn’t know how he does it, but kihyun makes his magma-black eyes cool completely, an impenetrable surface. his sharp face sharpens, that nose that threatens to tear any canvas that gets too near. changkyun thinks of how he was close enough to kiss a copy of a bruegel girl last week, her lips deep red, titanium white, medium blue for the shadow. changkyun runs his fingertips over the faint imprints of kihyun's white knuckles on his jacket, vermillion there.

they come to a stop in front of the auctioneer — the auctioneer and friends. a woman leaning on the hood of what is presumably their car, a man with a hat that hides his eyes, but not his small and hungry mouth. kihyun huffs a shadow of a sigh at the implied threat; this happens, sometimes, but not often. of course, this is a goya.

“you have it?” the auctioneer asks, already frantic. kihyun narrows his eyes.

“no, my associate is in fact carrying a large cutting board, so sorry for the mixup.”

even as he says this, he indicates for changkyun to hold up the case and unzips it partially, flashing the work he’s traded sleep for.

“and i assume you have everything, as well.”

not a question, the words are dragon-smoke out of his mouth. changkyun tightens his grip on the handle. the auctioneer’s shaking hand holds out a ratty old backpack, which kihyun raises an eyebrow at, but nonetheless gestures for changkyun to hold out the case to the other man to the auctioneer’s right. the hand-off is simultaneous, which is silly but typical for these with these paranoid types. they each examine their valuables, and changkyun watches kihyun in his periphery, mouth a line of concentration, fingers moving wickedly quick as he unzips the bag and counts bills inside.

the auctioneer is not that tall, but the tallest person present, so it offsets some of his nervous energy. his hair glints honey and gold under fluorescence as he lets his mysterious friend look over the forgery, the signature. he taps his foot; going once, going twice. sold, and almost too quick for comfort, they start moving toward the car, the woman already in the driver’s seat. in fact, the car’s running. had been since they got there. changkyun shivers, just barely, goosebumps rising on his arms, something in at the curve of his skull says _not right, not right._

the auctioneer has his hand on the car door when kihyun freezes.

“wait,” he says. there’s a moment of stillness, then the click of the car door. from inside, the roar of heating, the chime from the dash that says _get in, get in._

“what,” the auctioneer snaps, impatient. that faint chime dulls as he moves in front of it, turns back toward them. changkyun glances at kihyun's set jaw.

the thing about kihyun is that he’s fast at math. the thing about kihyun is that he makes fake things for a living. the thing about kihyun is that he can smell a fraud like a rat in his house.

changkyun doesn’t know what it is about them that makes people think that changkyun is the artist and kihyun is the — what, _backup,_ or something, but the man in the hat, the auctioneer, and the woman, through the glass of the back windshield, all gape at them, like kihyun shouldn’t have been able to spot a counterfeit bill. like _changkun_ could. if only they knew changkyun can’t even touch the gun.

flash of black, glint of steel, jackets moving, the car door slams.

the man in the hat smiles, with his hungry mouth, posture a mirror of kihyun’s, two guns levelled. 

changkyun, who cannot imagine a world in which kihyun says _wait_ and he doesn’t _wait,_ keeps waiting.

“i’m guessing the cash sitting in my apartment is also of questionable authenticity.”

with a voice like a cat tail, the man says, “only half.”

kihyun clicks his tongue. “business is so hard, these days. somehow none of the criminals i meet are trustworthy.”

changkyun almost laughs, but doesn’t, just holds the keys to isabella tightly.

“you know what they say,” the man says, tilting his head up so changkyun can see the edges of bleached hair, eyes like black water. “there are no good men left in new york.”

kihyun wets his lips, patience run dry. “painting, on the ground please.”

a frown, a shift to a one-handed grip on the gun. “non-negotiable? no shoes no service?”

kihyun smiles unsympathetically. “no exceptions.”

the painting is slid in its case to changkyun’s feet, where he slowly bends to pick it up. he can feel kihyun keeping track of him, shifting his body ever so slightly in the direction of isabella. changkyun gets ready to run.

“money back guaranteed?”

kihyun exhales, slow. it is thrilling in a way changkyun can barely process to see his artist hands on the gun instead of a brush. fingers for belgian linen on the trigger instead.

kihyun’s boot shifts on the concrete, and they move in unison, kihyun clutching the backpack, changkyun with the painting, a sharp curse, a car door opening. changkyun tries to move kihyun behind his shoulder, but—

footsteps. changkyun sees the flash of the gun again; tossed through the air from hand to red-gloved hand, and kihyun’s hand is shoving him, voice needle-keen in his ear, _“no—!”_

gunshot, bang bang. changkyun looks just in time to see the woman lowering the weapon, a flash of red lips, and she’s gone. the car is screeching out and away, and kihyun—

kihyun is _falling,_ changkyun drops the keys and painting to hold the priceless things instead — kihyun’s shoulders, bruising where they knock into changkyun’s side and chin.

“mother _fucker!”_ he screeches, not doing much for changkyun’s ringing ears.

“where, where,” he breathes, stumbling them over to the bike where kihyun throws his leg over the seat with a yell, panting, “goya, get the — fuck!”

changkyun grabs everything off the concrete, straps the painting to himself, gets on ahead of kihyun, “hospital? are you—”

“fucking idiot,” kihyun hisses, one of his hands gripping changkyun’s hip so tightly it’ll bruise.

“store the goya, save the cash, burn the — the counterfeit, i’m not.” for two seconds he doesn’t speak, for two seconds changkyun considers carrying him on foot to the brookdale hospital, ten blocks away.

“it’s not that bad,” he grinds out, finally, and changkyun feels a weight at the top of his back, between his shoulders, and — oh, that’s kihyun’s forehead. his hand maintains its grip, bunching changkyun’s shirt at the hem. his pinky brushes skin, cold.

“alright,” changkyun says, and swallows, revs the engine.

so, the thing about having a degree in art history instead of, oh, painting preservation, is that changkyun doesn't have particularly steady hands. kihyun is bleeding onto the couch, the goya is abandoned on the floor in the studio, and changkyun has a first aid kit and a few dozen paintbrushes to fix it all. the bullet got kihyun in the meat of his shoulder, the triangle of skin between his collar and ribs that changkyun has spent full days thinking about.

kihyun himself is paler than changkyun has seen on any previous occasion, clutching the cushions, teeth bared at the ceiling as if he could bring a deity down and start demanding answers for the current situation.

“just. fucking. do it,” he says, and the tone, at least, is familiar, though changkyun’s only heard it once before, when he spilled midnight black onto a caravaggio replica.

the bottle of rubbing alcohol shivers in his hand, and he takes a deep breath, then pours it. kihyun is silent by sheer force of will, right up until the end, when the alcohol seeps into the wound and the smallest, slightest whining breath escapes him.

“i’m so sorry,” changkyun says, and kihyun just shakes his head.

“can you see it.”

changkyun leans closer, catches the glint of metal. it’s not deep; probably went in at an angle.

“yes, it’s — should i…?”

kihyun pants, thrice, then, “van gogh.”

for a moment, changkyun is terrified kihyun is descending into delirium, but then he remembers: the van gogh fridge magnet they got from the museum.

he’s up and back in record time, little chunk of starry night clutched in his hand. as he moves it over kihyun’s shoulder, he feels cold fingers on his forearm. he stops.

“go. do it,” kihyun says, so changkyun does. it doesn’t work right away — he has to get the bullet mobile with one of their metal chopsticks, and kihyun passes out during that, but changkyun tries to focus. his hands shake, blood-slick, uncoordinated. kihyun’s b-positive is smeared over his nose where he’s been pushing up his glasses, smudged on his lenses. still, still he gets it out.

triumphant, he places it on the table behind himself and immediately disinfects the wound again. kihyun twitches and shudders, but doesn’t wake. changkyun is almost grateful, able to maneuver kihyun’s arm and shoulder as he wraps it, without kihyun moving himself and irritating it.

when it’s done, changkyun sits down heavily on the floor, leans his head against the table, panting. only now does he allow himself to recount the night, begin to sink into exhaustion.

he supposes they’ll have to find a new buyer for the goya — he’ll contact hyungwon tomorrow. and, of course, going through the cash, cleaning the gun—

he sits, up, a thought going through him like a lightning bolt. kihyun had been turned towards the buyers when everything went wrong — he’d _seen—_

changkyun’s hand, sticky and red, flies to his shoulder, sense-memory of kihyun’s palm on his joint making it hot all over again. vermillion. had he…?

well, changkyun was holding the painting. and it’s a goya, after all.

still, he scoots closer, examining kihyun’s unconscious form. he’s still pale, and his lips are chapped, so he’ll be asking for his aquaphor right away when he wakes, but he doesn’t seem to be otherwise dying in this current moment.

changkyun looks down at his forearm, where kihyun had gripped it. fingerprint bruises are beginning to bloom, and he runs his own fingers over them, plum, sea foam. kihyun’s hand is still upturned, palm rose-pink, a question, so changkun puts his arm back, fitting it into the circle of limp fingers. just in case he needs something to hold onto.

**Author's Note:**

> don't worry kihyun heals up nicely and they live happily ever after ! yes that was triple h.. a triple h treat for tazzes. they also live happily ever after probably in europe after several successful heists!  
> thank you for reading <3 lmk what u thought !


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